Professor of American Folklore
by 332249
Summary: Sequel to American Folklore. Professor Delmonico has spent years studying modern American folklore and picking up rumors of the Brothers Winchester. Now, she's getting closer than ever...
1. The Bar-Flies

Professor Delmonico put her beer to her lips. During the school year she rarely drank the brew; but whenever on a research trip during hiatus, she opted for whatever her subject pool was drinking. At the library or historical society hall it was bottled water. At the diner that meant hefty amounts coffee instead of her usual tea. Here at the pool hall/bar that meant whatever beer that was on tap instead of her preferred glass of wine.

She'd learned a long time ago that some of her usual habits didn't always work in the field. The casual business attire of a tenured university professor worked wonders on the town historian. Diner waitresses had clearly decided nice clothes, plus juicy local ghost story gossip requests, meant good tips. Bikers and truckers, however, took one look at gray slacks and a pink blouse with a string of pearls for trim and either closed down or ran her out.

When it came time to rub elbows with the rougher side of her job, her usual didn't cut it. So she sat drinking mediocre beer wearing comfortably worn jeans, t-shirt, and jean jacket. In her "interview uniform" most people here mistook her for a fellow truck driver. She'd certainly picked up enough jargon about CB radio chatter, roadway types, and diesel engines to join the conversation. Once she got them chatty, Delmonico could steer the discourse anywhere she wanted it to go.

As always, a small recorder dutifully kept record of what was said so she could get the quotes right for her next book.

Tonight looked like a night that she wouldn't have to work all that hard.

"Alright, boys and girl," a man wearing an eye patch announced grandly to his table companions, "It's that time. Fact or crap, biggest looser buys the round."

Delmonico turned to see four men and one woman sitting around a table with a bottle of decent whiskey in the middle and shot glasses stacked in a pyramid ready for use. All five participants reached for a glass.

"What's the topic today?" the youngest man (mid-twenties) asked.

"Ghosts without bones to burn?" the black man suggested.

"Nah, c'mon man, we did that month before last," the last man shook his head. He would have had a full and bushy beard if he hadn't braided it tight. "Just people acting like monsters?"

"The freakin' Winchesters!" the woman exclaimed. "We haven't done a round of Winchester stories in a long time. Not since we played, 'what dimension did Dean land in this time.'"

Delmonico perked up at her table and made sure her recorder was on and the volume turned up as high as it would go. She didn't want to miss any of this. Unaware of her excitement, the table's conversation rolled on.

Eye Patch chuckled. "Did anyone ever hear where he was? For real?"

"According to Garth, Purgatory," the youngest man answered.

The black man's eyebrows shot up. "Damn, that man doesn't do things by half, does he?"

"'Course not," Eye Patch agreed. "Delia, it was your idea. Wanna go first?"

Delia, apparently, eyed the man making the offer. "That's some backwards way of saying, 'ladies first,' is it Bo?"

Beard Braid laughed. "Aw, stuff the women's lib crap, Del. Save it for the idiot newbies who don't know any better."

Delia relaxed a bit; her smile admitting she was just messing with them. "Fine. Fact or Crap. Sam and Dean cleared out every single ghost in the Waverly Hills Sanatorium."

Delmonico jotted down the name Waverly Hills in her notebook; it sounded like a place she needed to pull some records on for her research. She'd heard of the haunted house, but it was abandoned and far enough away from people that she didn't hear that much about it anymore. She waited to hear if her Winchesters had anything to do with the place.

Meanwhile, the table cast votes.

Only the youngest at the table voted against, saying, "They're good, but they're only two guys."

Delia smirked in victory. "God's honest. I took a newbie out there, made him stand in the iron hoop so's he could get used to feeling out incoming cold spots. We stood there for hours, me feeling like a dumb-ass because nothing and nobody showed. Wanted to chew Dean out for making me look like a moron," Delia told them.

"How'd you know it was Winchesters?" the youngest demanded, not ready to give up.

Delia shrugged, "Seriously, Lindsey? Who else?"

Who else, indeed, Delmonico snickered. Now that would make a good section title. Not only did every single person at the table absolutely believe the Winchesters were real, it was as if there could be no other cause for the sudden cessation of paranormal activity. Would these people credit the Winchesters when the power company trimmed back a tree so the power lines stopped flickering?

Grumbling, the young man (Lindsey) threw a few bills on the table as everyone else threw back a shot, having accepted the answer and the explanation. Delmonico knew that the whiskey bottle would be more or less paid for by the time the game was over.

Setting down the shots, it was Lindsey's turn.

"Okay, Fact or Crap." The younger man chewed on his bottom lip, trying to think of something good. "Sam once jumped a blood-crazy Hunter turned vampire with his bare hands."

The whole table groaned and everyone cried "fact" almost in unison. Turning red, Lindsey threw more money on the table.

"Please, dude, that was weak," Beard Braid mocked good-naturedly. "Everyone and their mother knew Gorden Walker bit off more than he could chew."

The whole table groaned again at the bad pun.

"Just for that, you're up next, Bo."

Beard Braid Bo chuckled. "Fact or Crap. _Sam_ Winchester slept with five women in one night."

The table took a moment to consider that one.

"Huh. If you said Dean, that'd be a no-brainer," the black man snorted, "I've seen him work. But _Sam...?_ I mean, he probably could if he wanted to..."

"...but Mr. Tall Dark and Puppy-Eyed doesn't do that." Delia finished. "I call Crap."

In the end the Craps won.

"Fact," Beard Braid declared smugly. "It was that year the boy was wandering around without his soul and didn't sleep. He got bored and really got around. He said five was a personal record." Bo threw back his shot and motioned for the table to pay up.

Delmonico scribbled furiously. 'Wandering around without his soul?' That was a new one for her; how does one loose his soul? There was a chapter section in there somewhere, she just knew it. But if there was, she'd have to collaborate with the philosophy department. She knew Professor Shapiro would go on for hours about whether we _have_ a soul or whether we _are_ a soul, but he always gave the most publishable quotes so the afternoon discussion wouldn't be completely wasted.

And Sam Winchester doesn't need to sleep? Since when? Why?

Then the professor harrumphed to herself. Five women in one night, as though that was a feat worth bragging about. You'd think after spending years pretending to be a bar-fly she'd be accustomed to this kind of debauchery. Men. Thankfully, it didn't devolve into each man's personal record. Maybe that was because Delia was present.

"You're up, T.J."

The black man nodded. "Fact or Crap. Sam and Dean walked right down into hell, picked another fight with Lucifer, and then walked out again."

The table fell silent again, but this silence seemed different to Delmonico somehow. Less considering and more...processing. To be honest, the professor froze a little bit at the challenge in T.J.'s voice. That was one hell of a claim to make (no pun intended this time).

"Seriously?" Delia breathed, a little bit of awe in her voice.

"Vote first, proof or truth after," T.J. reminded.

This time the table split about half and half, two Facts and two Craps.

"Fact," he announced. "Heard it from a demon, all pissed off that the King of Hell was just letting Winchesters waltz in and out of anywhere they wanted; that the Freakin' Winchesters had the old leprechaun whipped."

"Well, yeah, we knew that," Bo snorted. "I mean, demons still give me the cold willies, but they're easy picking for John's boys. How do you know they threw down with the Devil again? And why would they do that? Didn't work out great for them last time. The world, yeah. Them? Not so much."

Delmonico had heard the Apocalypse and the Winchesters tale before; it was in the Edlund books. What surprised her was that these bar-flies had heard the same thing. Did the author get it from listening to the bar-flies or did the bar-flies hear it from someone who read the author? Oh, she could spend the rest of her career chasing that chicken-and-egg question. But the important bit was the spread of the story. However the story got started, everyone here acted as though it were complete truth.

Meanwhile, the conversation didn't pause for her thoughts.

T.J. sipped at a beer. "Way I heard it, there was a new Big Bad, worse than anything before. That black smoke that started wiping out towns?" He paused and the table nodded their recognition. "They heard Lucifer was the only thing old enough left standing that knew how to gank it. So they took a trip and asked."

"Damn, the balls in those two!" Eye Patch guffawed.

"Big and hairy," Bo agreed.

"Wait, was that the Big Bad that broke the sun, do y'think?" Lindsey asked. "Y'think the Winchesters fixed it?"

"Wouldn't surprise," T.J. shrugged. "I mean, they did something to make that extra solar eclipse a few years back."

"Yeah, what was with that?" Delia asked. "I asked once, right after. Dean gave me that 'one more word and I deck you' glare and Sam acted like I'd jut kicked Dean's puppy."

This was good, Delmonico thought. Now they were attributing astrological occurrences to the Winchesters. Most cultures reserved those kind of acts to gods. She remembered hearing on the news about how something eclipsed the sun days after the regularly expected solar eclipse. It was weird, but she always assumed there was some scientific reason. The science department had gone into a tizzy, but she couldn't understand half the technical jargon they were throwing around for an explanation.

Apparently, monsters were also powerful enough to break the sun now. That was new. Of course she remembered the sun dimming and the science department going into another tizzy. But really. The scientists went into a tizzy for that big meteor shower a little over a year ago, too. Idly, Delmonico wondered how her bar-flies would explain the world-wide meteor shower. That was probably the Winchesters shooting down aliens or something.

Huh, aliens. Delmonico made a note to explore aliens as a continuation of folklore. But later; this was getting good.

"Someone probably died on 'em," Bo offered. "Doesn't pay to stand too close to those boys for too long, y'know?"

"On that happy note, its my turn!" Eye Patch declared, dispelling the gloom from the table. "Fact or Crap. Dean Winchester got his ass kicked by Tinker Bell's little sister."

The table broke into much needed laughter and chorused, "Crap!"

Eye Patch smirked. "Fact."

"Bull!" Lindsey laughed. "A Winchester getting beat by a fairy? Are fairy's even a thing?"

Ghosts, vampires, demons and the Devil and nobody blinks; but they draw the line at fairies? Delmonico wanted to laugh. What? Where fairies not scary enough to be real?

"Sam says they are. Said one handed his brother his ass." Eye Patch defended himself.

"I'm with Lindsey, I call Bull." T.J. countered.

"Fine, but you all have to pay up double when I prove it." Eye Patch pulled out his phone.

"Yeah, whatever. You're buying the whole bottle if you can't!" Delia reminded.

Delmonico turned a little more to get a better view. She wanted to see how they thought they could prove such a claim. Her eyes widened when she realized they were all gathered closer to a cellphone on speaker.

"Danny? How's it going man? Haven't heard from you in a while." The voice coming from the phone sounded tinny but it was loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Dean," Eye Patch Danny greeted. "Gotcha on speaker. We're playing Fact or Crap and these knuckleheads won't believe me."

Delmonico froze. Dean Winchester was on the phone not five feet away. No way! He wasn't supposed to be real...just folklore. Or if he was based on a real person, that person should have died a few years ago. Besides, monsters weren't real! Even if there was a guy going by the name Dean Winchester, there is nothing for him to be doing. You can't kill monsters if they don't exist.

"Okay, shoot."

"Did you or did you not get your ass kicked by Tinker Bell?" Danny demanded.

There was a beat, then Dean's voice bellowed, "SAM! What the hell man! Why would you tell Danny Tallon about Tinker Bell! You know he'd tell every Hunter in the States!"

"So its true?" Lindsey gaped.

Dean growled and everyone could hear another voice in the background laughing. "Laugh it up, Sammy. I will get you for this! Danny, for the record, Tinker Bell died a horrible microwaved death. And while she got a few good punches in, at no point did she come close to kicking my ass! Are we clear?"

Delia let loose a whoop of mirth. "Dean Winchester got his ass handed to him by Tinker Bell!"

"I hate you people," Dean growled and hung up.

Delia poured shots all around and held up her glass in toast. "To Tinker Bell!"

The table chorused the toast and everyone threw back their shots.

Realizing she might never get another opportunity like this, Delmonico gathered up her courage and addressed the table she had been shamelessly eavesdropping on all night. "Excuse me, I couldn't help but overhear, and this might sound strange, but could I get Dean Winchester's phone number? I've been trying to catch up with him and Sam for a long time."

TBC?


	2. The Deal

All of her bar-flies went suddenly quiet and wary; all of them eyeing her like she might be dangerous. Several different hands slid off the table and into pockets or drifted near belt lines. Delmonico knew what that meant; she'd been around enough bars during research trips to know that there were probably knives and guns in those pockets.

She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat.

Delia openly appraised the newcomer. "You're not really Dean's ex-one-night-stand type, are you?"

As a healthy forty-ish year old who could still run a mile and a half in the morning and wore a size ten, Delmonico was pretty enough to draw attention at the department mixers. Granted the other tenured professors were all above her age bracket, but still. Also, she spent enough time in bars she'd learned to endure all kinds of come-ons and how to decline a man's advances without bruising his delicate ego. (And not incidentally, how to tell if the fella was going to be a problem and extract herself gracefully before he got nasty.) The dead Dean Winchester from Lawrence, KS would be over fifteen years her junior. She'd been propositioned by younger.

Delmonico smiled at the other woman, determined to stay on the table's good side. The best way to do that was to meet them on their own terms. "Sweetie, when the fellow is that cute and...athletic...even a lady my age would consider it."

Humor twinkled in Delia's eye. Oh, she'd considered it, too.

"But, no. I've never actually met the guy. I'd really like to," she finished.

Suddenly a splash of somebody's drink hit her in the face. Delmonico recoiled, expecting the burn of alcohol to sting her eyes. It took a moment for her brain to register the lack. In fact, the liquid didn't smell at all and wasn't the least bit sticky. "Water?" she asked stupidly. "What am I? The Wicked Witch of the West? I'm not going to melt!" Then she realized everyone had relaxed a fraction. "It's holy water, isn't it? I'm not possessed."

Because these people honestly and truly believed she might be, that a demon would walk up to them in a bar and ask for a modern day Van Helsing's phone number.

"Okay then, not a demon," Danny admitted, but that didn't make him relax any. If anything, his voice deepened and became more threatening now that she was an unknown. "Who are you? And why are you so interested in the Winchesters?"

"Are we still taking bets?" Bo wanted to know. "My money's on Fed, second choice for witch. Any takers?"

"Why Fed?" Delia wondered.

"She's got that 'I belong in an office' vibe," Bo shrugged.

Delmonico decided she wasn't enough of a liar to be anything but honest right now. "My name is Leah Delmonico; I am a professor of mythology and folklore. I am writing a book on urban legends. Everywhere I go, I have run into the name Winchester. In fact, I have more evidence of Sam and Dean than I do of Big Foot. You all believe these men are real. If they are, I want to talk to them."

Lindsey blinked in bewilderment. "A professor."

She nodded and sat down with her purse on the table. "Oh, and before I forget," she murmured pulling a folder from the outside pocket. "I heard your game of Fact or Crap and I would love to use some of your quotes for my next research paper. Do you mind?" she asked, sliding several sheets of paper across the table.

"What's this?" Bo picked up his copy for a better look.

"Release forms, giving me legal permission to use your words in my publication," the professor explained, completely forgetting Danny's implied threat for a moment. She also dropped a few pens from her university on the table for them to write with. "If you don't want me to use your name, just check the box on the bottom."

T.J. skimmed the document. "I know I'm a little drunk, but is she for real?"

Lindsey held up the tablet he had been poking at. The screen showed them a webpage for one Professor Leah Delmonico, her current class listings, and her list of publications. He tapped the screen bringing up another site, titled "Modern American Folklore" with "Chapter 3: Winchester, Just a Rifle...Right?" highlighted. "I think she's legit."

Everybody but Eye Patch Danny clustered around the tablet to read the wikipedia synopsis.

"Woman don't believe in monsters or the Winchesters, but she still wants their phone numbers," T.J. shook his head. "I don't know whether to run her skinny ass outta here or introduce them and sit back with a bag of popcorn."

A broad grin stretched its way across Danny's face as an idea came to him. "Well now. I say we have ourselves a little fun and give the professor here a little challenge. How's about _she_ pays for the bottle and we all play one more round of Fact or Crap. If the little lady gets at least three outta five right, we give her the release forms and the phone number. If she doesn't, we give her the boot. Sound like a plan?"

.o0o.

Leah Delmonico was fuming mad. Still.

It had been days since she'd been unceremoniously thrown out of a roadhouse bar by a band of half-drunken 'monster hunters' who had laughingly told her she needed to study more because she clearly didn't know here subject very well. Didn't know her subject very well! Really? Didn't know her subject?! She had literally written a book on the subject. What did those bar-flies know?

And she was just supposed to take their collective word that they were right and she was wrong? How would they know that several different kinds of evil clowns had tried to kill Sam Winchester? Evil clowns, seriously? What childhood trauma lead to the spread of that rumor?

Or that Dean Winchester once mind-melded with a dog? Mind-melding is a Star Trek thing, dammit, not a supernatural thing! Some of the stories getting around about Winchesters were becoming strangely sci-fi. Like the military man who heard from a friend of a friend about body-snatching worms a marine picked up in some tombs in the Sandbox until Sam and Dean hit the scene.

At least they had all signed the release forms as consolation prizes before throwing her out.

Delmonico tried to calm herself down. She had textbooks to evaluate for her next round of classes, tests to write, and a couple of summer class projects to grade for her grad students. From experience she knew that if she tried any of that now, all the textbooks would be written by morons, all of her tests would be impossible to pass, and her students would be reduced to tears by her comments on their failed papers. Calm. She had to be calm. She was a professional and could act like one.

It almost worked. It would have worked, if no one had picked that moment to knock.

"Professor Delmonico?" a bearded man demanded, letting himself in with a second slightly shorter man following in his wake. Both were too old to be students at the university, but neither exactly had the 'collegiate professional' aire about them. "I'm Ed Zeddmore, this is my colleague Harry Spengler. We want to talk to you about appearing as a guest on our T.V. Series 'GhostFacers.'"

"Yeah, see we're professional paranormal investigators. We chase real ghosts for a living instead of just ghost stories," Harry explained with a touch of condescension in his tone.

"Which is why we probably didn't get mentioned in your book," Ed added. "Since, you know, we're not fakes and just making things up. Anyway, we have our own website where we post video footage of our investigations, but the networks won't pick us up. They said that we," he held up his hands making air quotes, "lack credibility."

"Lack credibility," Harry echoed with a roll of his eyes. "Like we haven't been doing this for years and years. I mean, come on. We already published a book!"

"Thinman, by Zeddmore and Spengler. Look it up," Ed broke in.

"And we have actual footage of a T.O.S.H. No other paranormal investigation crew has that!" Harry cried, as though he was delivery the last damning bit of evidence at a murder trial.

Delmonico felt compelled to ask, "What's a Tosh?" and then regretted her words, because she was pretty sure she did not want to know the answer to that question right now.

"What's a T.O.S.H," Ed repeated, with a pity-the-sad-little-person laugh. "A Trans-locating Opaque Spectral Humanoid, of course. We have it on tape."

"Yeah, only it called itself an 'angel'." This time Harry made the air quotes.

"Like those are real!" Ed scoffed. "So, if we could get another professional, you know, like a published university professor, to come on the show with us, then that might be enough," again with the air quotes, "credibility to make them reconsider."

"So, what do you say?" Harry demanded.

Oh, this was not helping Delmonico's migraine or her temper. Taking a deep breath and reminding herself that she really was a professional, she answered, "Gentlemen, my work focuses on the effects of folklore on society, not the folklore itself. I am not a ghost chaser or any kind of paranormal investigator. I don't think it would be appropriate for me to appear on your..." _Idiocy,_ she thought but didn't say aloud. "...production," she finished instead.

"Come on!" Ed wheedled, "We'll make you as famous as us!"

"It'll get you all the hot guys!" Harry offered excitedly. "Good looking guys will totally dig the bad-ass ghost hunter chick!

 _Right, because that is all I want out of life!_ Delmonico thought as she struggled not to roll her eyes. "I'm sorry, gentlemen. I'm afraid I just don't have the time for any new projects with the semester starting so soon."

Both men deflated.

"Well, this blows!" Ed whined. "First those douches the Winchesters refuse to come out to be the eye candy muscle next to our amazing brain power and knowledge, now the only decent-looking professor chick refuses to get on board to be the show's gravitas! What'll go wrong next?!"

Almost against her will, Delmonico asked, "Wait, you know the Winchesters?"

Ed snorted. "We met a few times."

"They totally ruined our footage from Morton House in Wisconsin!" Harry complained.

"But we exchanged phone numbers with them anyway, in case they ever got in over their heads and needed our professional advice or assistance," Ed explained with a sniff.

"You two seriously have Sam and Dean Winchester's phone number?" she asked cautiously, not wanting to send them into another frenzy of unwanted information.

"Of course!" Ed exclaimed sounding vaguely insulted. "We're not liars!"

"Can I get that number from you?"

Harry shrugged and dug in a pocket for his phone.

But Ed stopped him and put on what he probably thought was a crafty expression. "What's in it for us?"

Delmonico rubbed her temples, considering her options and the odds that these two morons would ever actually get anything published. "How about this: you give me that phone number, and if the Winchesters answer I will give you a ten minute blurb on camera about the history of whatever haunted house you're thinking about investigating."

"Twenty minutes," Ed counted. "And you have to come out and do publicity shot by the haunted house wearing something slinky when the network picks us up."

Delmonico forced a smile. "Twenty minutes and publicity shots wearing my usual clothes."

"Fine," Ed grumbled, "but you're killing some rating points, here."

She could live with that; it would be a lot less embarrassing than another round of Fact or Crap. "Gentlemen, we have a deal."

A/N: If you haven't seen the GhostFacers' "Interview with an Angel" with Misha Collins doing a guest spot on the webisode, then you won't get the TOSH reference. Look it up on youTube, its hilarious.


	3. The Chance Meeting

Professor Delmonico strolled across campus. It had been months since the regrettable incident with the GhostFacers and the subsequent filming spot. Her part wasn't so bad, really; a simple history of a supposedly haunted house. Also, thankfully, no network was touching the would-be reality TV show so she wouldn't have to avoid any colleagues out of embarrassment. Zeddmore and Spengler gave her the phone number, so she paid up.

Her first try went straight to voice mail, and a voice much like the tinny one in the roadhouse informed her that this was, "Dean's other, other phone" and that she "should not have this number!" She left a message for him anyway introducing herself and asking him to return her call. Over the next few days, she left several messages on that phone and no one ever returned her calls. Either it wasn't a real number or they had no interest in answering.

After a while, she wrote the whole thing off as one of her more crazy ideas and stopped trying. After all, her interest was folklore not wild goose chases. Stories were real, but the people in the stories didn't have to be, and the monsters certainly weren't.  
Now, she was happily back in the full swing of the semester. Right now, she was on her way to the library special references section to cross-reference a few sources for her next research project.

"Hello, Professor," the librarian greeted, "What can I pull for you today?"

"I need another look at the Brandysworth journals," Delmonico answered.

"Oh! Um..." the librarian glanced over at a man already sitting at the special collections reserves.

Delmonico turned to look, too. The man wasn't much younger than her, say mid to late thirties, with longish brown hair. He must have been faculty, judging solely on his sweater vest and tweed ensemble. Probably some kind of history specialty, judging by his familiarity with the soft cloth gloves he knew to wear to handle the hundred year old leather book. The hundred year old leather book that she had come to peruse. With a nod of thanks to the librarian, she walked in.

"So, not to rush you or anything, but do you know how long you'll be using those?"

The man's head popped up, surprised to be addressed. "Excuse me?"

Leah finally got a good look at his face and couldn't help but notice that he was a handsome man. As he sat and she stood, they were almost eye to eye which made him a tall man. And it was the strangest thing, he looked familiar, somehow; but she couldn't quite place where she had seen him before. Between the height and the face, if they'd met before one would think she would remember.

"The Brandyworth journals," she gestured to the books. "I was hoping to check my notes against a few things today, but you beat me to them. So, if you'll be done soon, I'll wait. If you need longer, I guess I'll come back later."

"Oh," the man looked down at the journals then back up to her. "Actually, I don't know how long I'll need. I'm not actually interested in the Brandywines, per se; I'm looking for references to the Edwards family. According to some letters I found at the historical society, the two families were pretty close in the late 1800's."

"Maybe I can help," Delmonico sat down beside him and pulled her notes out of her satchel. While flipping through them, the man edged his chair a little closer to look over her shoulder. "I'm Leah, by the way. I teach the mythology courses and a few Intro to World Literature to validate my existence here."

The man laughed at her humor, showing off a matching set of dimples. "I'm Sam."

"Nice to meet you, Sam. Here we are, the Edwards, dates 4-8-42, 2-4-43, and 5-9-43." Delmonico traced a finger along her notes. "Hmm. I don't know if I would call the families 'pretty close.' By my notes, Mr. Marion Brandyworth and Mr. Terrence Edwards had quite the family feud going on. Brandyworth crowed quite happily when Edwards went missing in May."

"Its weird sometimes, how two really old enemies can be almost friends. My brother knows a guy like that. They've literally tried to kill each other a few times yet they've still got each other on speed dial. I bet Marion knew just about everything about Terrence and visa versa." Sam flipped to the date to read for himself. The man kept his eyes on the words while talking and seemed perfectly able to do both at once. "Went missing, you said? Did anybody think foul play?"

"You're brother sounds like an interesting fellow. And not at first. There," Leah leaned over to point out the line in the journal (without actually touching, she didn't have the gloves on.) "When Terrence went missing, Marion made a point to ensure that a certain marriageable young woman in his family hadn't vanished as well. His daughter was quite indignant and indicated that if she were to leave home, her father would not only know about it but she had every intention of taking certain valuables with her."

Sam laughed. "Sounds like a spunky lady. What changed his mind? About the foul play?"

Leah pointed again to another line. "Here. Brandyworth found out that Edwards left his dog behind when he vanished."

Sam leaned over to decipher the handwriting on the page. " _I brought home Franklin today. Poor dog has been absolutely despondent these last months over the loss of his master, as attached to him as he was to it. It would appear that growling at me is the only thing that rouses the animal from its misery and gives it purpose again, so the family has gifted me with the beast. Even from his grave Mr. Terrence finds a way to vex me, the clever bastard. I've half a mind to find his killer and thank him before killing him myself, whoever he is."_

"May I ask, why all the interest? I would guess local history buff or genealogy research." Delmonico had assisted more than one person trying to track down some family history through the university's archives, but this didn't feel like the same thing.

"Or something," Sam muttered with a small smile. "Did Brandyworth ever mention where Edwards was buried in here?"

That's when the pieces began to click into place for her. "In the last few months several people had gone missing around the small towns half and hour to the west of here. Some locals swear its the specter that has been known to appear on the main square. One of the dead town fathers intent on protecting his legacy, so they say.

That's why your here. You're a paranormal investigator, aren't you?"

Sam gave her an embarrassed smile. "Had run-ins with ghost hunters before, huh?"

"The GhostFacers offered me a spot on their team."

"Oh, God," Sam blurted, instantly sympathetic. "I'm sorry."

Laughter escaped before Delmonico could control herself again. "You've met?"

Sam huffed a laugh. "Yeah, unfortunately. For what its worth, not everybody in the field is like them. Actually, _most_ people in the field aren't like them."

"I'll bet. At least you have a proper appreciation for research and the care of primary source documentation. So tell me: why now? Why would this ghost be taking people now?"

Sam considered her for a moment before coming to a decision. "You're going to laugh."

"I'm already doing that," she assured him. "Everyone who has gone missing are part of a petition to have large breed dogs banned from living inside city limits," Sam offered up for her amusement.

Delmonico blinked, processed, and proved the ghost hunter right by laughing her head off.

Sam just smiled painfully until she vented her amusement. Then, with mock threat in his voice, he told her, "Keep it up and I will take all day with this journal."

"Last entry. There was a memorial almost a year later. Edwards had been found dead in a ditch, robbed of everything of value and shot in the back. The town buried him by the court house and Brandyworth had a bronze casting of a dog placed over the grave site." Delmonico smiled. "That's probably why your historical society thought they were close."

"Yeah, probably," Sam agreed.

"So, what's next for you? Spirit-photography set up at the courthouse and EMF meters around the grounds?"

"Something like that." Sam closed the hundred year old journal and peeled off his gloves. "All yours."

Delmonico shook her head as the really tall, handsome paranormal investigator packed his things to leave. As soon as the door to Special Archives closed, he pulled out his cell phone. She could just hear his half of the conversation through the glass.

"Yeah, come pick me up. I got a location on the bones." Pause. "Sounds good, Dean. I'll meet you..." His voice trailed off as he walked away.

Still snickering, she tried to turn her thoughts to her work at hand. Sam and Dean, ghost hunters. Then she froze.

Sam and Dean. Hunters.

Her head snapped around. With more rush than dignity, she dove for the visitor's sign in log at the Special Archives counter.

There it was, in black and white. Sam Winchester.

Could it be?


	4. The Rescuers

A/N I wrote part of this while waiting in line at the 2016 Chicago Supernatural Convention. So, blame any mistakes on the appearance of Jared, Jensen, and Mark Sheppard. They distracted me.

.o0o.

Once again Delmonico sat with a beer in one hand, surrounded by bar-flies. This time it was New Mexico, at the only rest stop for over a hundred miles (part bar, restaurant, convenience store, gas station, and motel.) Anyone traveling from Texas to California ended up stopping here, whether it was for a bathroom break or a decent night's sleep in air conditioning. And nearly everyone who stopped ended up telling a few good-old fashioned ghost stories. The proprietor was a cantankerous old piece of leather, but that was all part of his charm.

Another summer break sabbatical, another road trip to collect her stories.

The desert was always a good place to hear ghost stories about lost travelers who never made it home, who died of thirst lost in the heat. The proprietor, named Josiah, refused to be drawn into any discussion about her stock in trade but didn't run her off when she got someone else going. Probably because she was spending a lot of money at his place Josiah introduced her to a couple of his friends: old gummers who loved telling stories. Earl was at least eighty, with white fluff contrasting strongly with his dark tan. Walt was a few years younger than his friend and still had some pepper left in his beard.

Some of the stories were worth recording, mostly ghost stories. She liked the idea of the Old Indian curse on the area that makes it impossible for anything to prosper. Because bad location wasn't explanation enough. Historically, even the local Native American Tribes avoided the area as inhospitable. Minimal water sources ensure minimal population growth. But a good myth often explained what was already happening.

Less interesting from a folklorist's perspective was the was also one where giant, burrowing worms eat people and livestock. According to the gummers, those worms can feel vibrations in the ground from miles away. If you feel one coming, just hold still and they thing can't find you anymore. Delmonico was pretty sure that was the plot from a Kevin Bacon movie.

This latest one was making her wonder if they were serious or pulling her leg. Somewhere, in the back of her head, she heard five monster hunters voting Fact or Crap.

"It had lived around here for as long as I can remember," Earl explained. "Not all the time, but every six or seven years, I think. The Thirsty starts to live up to its name, crawls out of whatever cave or hole it lives in and starts scooping up folks."

"Yes-sir-ee-bob!" Walt agreed. "Generations of poe-lice knowed that the Thirsty was out drinking ever so often, but never could do nothin' to stop it! Alls they can do is bring in them dried out corn husks that used to be people and notify next of kin."

"Dried out corn husks?" Delmonico asked, hoping for some clarification. The teacher part of her had to be reminded that now was not an appropriate time for a grammar lesson.

"Yep," Earl nodded. "Highway patrol or park rangers will start finding dried out mummified corpses lying around. Usually whole families."

"Poe-lice always say 'car trouble' and that them families try walking for help 'fore they die and dry in the desert," Walt snorted in derision. "I'm-a telling you, missy, the only thing causin' them cars any trouble is the Thirsty running 'em off the road!"

"Runs 'em off the road, and drinks down all the water in 'em." Earl added.

"Ever seen it?" Delmonico asked.

"Nah, no'un ever sees it but them's about to get drank." Walt shuddered and threw back what was left of his beer.

"And the Thirsty wouldn't want these two, anyway." Josiah broke into the conversation to hand off another longneck to each of his friends. "They are both too pickled in beer and whiskey to be good drinking water."

All three men had a good laugh about that one.

Josiah added a bottle of water for the lady, having already figured out she wasn't much of a drinker. Or to make her the tastier option for the Thirsty. One of the two. "Its getting late, boys. Either this is your last one, or you two are bunking in the shed again. What'll it be?"

Before either could answer, a car's big engine rumbled up to the front; its tires making the service bell ding in announcement. A car door opened with a loud creak and a man's deep voice boomed out, "Hello! Somebody call for an ambulance! We got some injured people here!"

The door kicked open and Delmonico assumed the owner of the voice strode in, with an unconscious child in his arms. Two adults flung themselves out of the car and glued themselves to the booming-voiced man, or rather the child in his arms; both of them had been crying.

Behind him, a small flock of people began to clown-car out of the vehicle, ten or more of them. A few were limping and most were clearly exhausted; the largest, most mobile of the group was helping them but even he had a cut across his forehead and blood dripping down his face. Delmonico couldn't figure out how so many fit in a vehicle meant for six, but at the moment her attention was elsewhere.

Booming-voice lay the child down and turned to lock eyes with Josiah. "Ambulance?" he demanded.

Josiah was already on the phone, giving the location and asking for just that.

Earl commented, "Son, we're a good forty minutes from the nearest hospital out here."

"Dammit!" Booming-voice swore before setting his shoulders and taking charge of the situation. He tossed a key ring to Earl. "In the trunk of the car there's a bag with a red cross on it. Bring it to me. You," he indicated Walt by simply looking at him hard. "Find me a bottle of distilled water and sugar. Ma'am," he turned his gaze to Delmonico. "Can you help or are you gonna pass out?"

The professor swallowed hard and she was sure she looked a little pale, but she lifted her chin. "I can help. I'll pass out later." Whatever had happened to these people, their rescuer didn't need one more patient to worry about.

Booming-voice smiled (and even amid the emergency she noticed it was a nice smile). "Good enough. This girl is severely dehydrated. I'm going to get an I.V. in her arm. You think you can find something to keep the fluids above her head? Otherwise someone will have to stand there holding it."

She nodded and took her marching orders like everyone else there. Earl was back in no time. Whoever Booming-voice was, he had a fully stocked emergency medicine bag that included needles and tubing. In no time at all, he had an I.V. rigged and the girl's coloring started to improve.

Meanwhile, the other large man had set up a triage. He had dug into the medical bag without asking, showing that the two men were together, and then started putting pressure bandages on people's wounds. He told one person, "That'll need some stitches, but it will hold until you get to a hospital. Just drink your water slowly and let me know if you start feeling dizzy."

Delmonico had the strangest suspicion that she should know him. But it was hard to make out his features under the grime and the gash over his eye that made part of his face swell.

Josiah flitted in and out dispensing bottles of water to all the survivors and he did so without complaint over the extra work or the cost. No desert dweller would refuse water to such a ragged group. Cynically, Delmonico wondered if he was keeping a running tab and would hand the bill over to someone later. She wondered what the state would do if he mailed them the invoice.

After a good ten minutes of calming down, Earl stood to look over the group. The reality that whatever had happened was behind them now filtered through the haze of fear. Mostly, everyone just looked tired. "Well I'll be damned. I will be damned. This is the first time I have ever heard of anyone coming back from being grabbed up by the Thirsty."

Delmonico stared at the old man. The Thirsty? Really? It was probably just a bad car accident, not a desert monster. But then, this was how urban legends got started and grew bigger. No one would ever convince old Earl that there wasn't something that goes bump out in that dry, hot night.

Booming-voice looked up at the old timer. "Is that what the locals called the thing?"

Delmonico's mouth fell open. Why was he encouraging this?

Earl nodded. "Drinks people dry."

Booming-voice snorted, "Not anymore. We ganked the sonnuva bitch."

"I- I still don't understand what happened," a woman admitted shakily. "That...thing, was-?"

The tall one doing triage reached out a hand a lay it on her shoulder, letting the human contact reassure her. "It's gone. Chances are you'll never see anything like that ever again."

The little girl with the I.V. sniffled, "But what if we do?"

Booming-voice knelt down at her side and handed her a business card. "Then you call us and we'll come back and gank that one, too," he told her.

The girl nodded seriously, and handed the card to her parents for safe-keeping.

Booming-voice nodded back, just as serious. A promise made and accepted. Then he stood to his full height to draw the attention of the room. "Okay everyone, we need to clear out of here before the police show up."

"You're leaving?!" a woman shrilled.

"It, the Thirsty, I guess, is very very dead. You're safe now," he reminded her. "Me and my brother don't mix too well with cops. They always try to blame us for what the monster did. So, yeah, we're leaving. But before we go, you all might want to get your stories straight."

"Our stories?" the girl's father demanded.

"Yep. Personally, I'd go with car accident and crazy cannibal cave dwellers; y'know, very 'The Hills Have Eyes' kinda thing. Then you were rescued by a random guy obsessed with finding the truth about his little sister's disappearance," he gestured to himself, "who vanished as soon as you were safe. See, that way, no one locks any of you up for a 72 hour psychiatric evaluation. 'Cuz everyone knows that monsters aren't real."

The father, probably a respectable businessman judging by his clothing choices, seemed taken aback by that line of thought. But he warmed to the idea quickly. No one wanted to be labeled 'crackpot' or have 'institutionalized after severe mental trauma' tacked onto their record.

Booming-voice could obviously follow the man's line of thought and nodded. "If everyone says the same thing, they'll believe you. No one who hasn't seen this crap wants to believe it. So. Car accident. Cannibal cave dwellers. Rescued by handsome and mysterious stranger. Can't find your way back to the caves to show the bodies and never want to again, anyway. Have a nice life."

Booming-voice and Triage nodded to Josiah and vanished out the front door.

Josiah turned to Delmonico."Well Professor, there's a Winchester story for your book."

Delmonico blinked stupidly, "What?"

"The Winchesters," he pointed at the doorway. Outside, a car's big engine turned over. "You wanted to know if I had any good Winchester stories for you. Well, you just got to see one in the making. Sorry I didn't have time to give you three proper introductions."


	5. Meet At Last

Delmonico stared at the photocopy of a business card. Sat in the library and stared at the black and white piece of paper. Boldly it proclaimed: Winchester Brothers. Saving People and Hunting Things. A family business since 1983. A pair of phone numbers. One of them matched what she'd gotten from the GhostFacers months ago.

This was impossible. Impossible.

Monsters weren't real. It was folklore, complete fiction, stories people made up to entertain and inspire and explain. And if monsters weren't real, then monster hunters wouldn't be real either.

And yet. Here she sat, staring at a copy of a business card given to a little girl by her rescuer. A man who's face matched his FBI Most Wanted mug shot. A man who's brother had sat in the Special Archives section of her university researching a long dead man the day before people stopped going missing. A man who'd gotten his ass kicked by Tinkerbell.

Impossible. Right?

Delmonico sighed. It was impossible before things started happening in her office. First it was little things, her papers weren't where she thought they should be or the books on her shelves got reorganized. Then whoppie cushions started appearing on her office chair when she walked to her bookshelf and back with no one else in the room. Followed by silly string in the face when she looked up from grading papers, also in an empty room. The last straw was watching a stink bomb float in mid-air before it smacked into her desk, shattering and living up to its name.

She made the call.

Sam answered.

Delmonico found herself oddly tongue-tied. "Hello. Umm... I got your number from... well, I was there when you and your brother stopped the... the Thirsty... in New Mexico. You said if we ever ran into anything again, we could call you and you would come gank it?"

As long as she didn't ask to interview them again, hopefully they'd at least hear her out.

.o0o.

Now, the brothers stood in her office guns pointed at the corner.

"Sammy, are you seeing what I'm seeing?" Dean demanded, eyes wide in surprise and staring at empty space.

Sam flicked his eyes to his brother, checking if they were indeed staring in the same direction. "Probably," he answered, voice tight.

"Doc, you got a PhD in weird crap, right?" Dean's gun hand held steady as he refused to look away from whatever the problem was.

"Mythology and Folklore, yes," Delmonico agreed, still trying to see what they obviously saw.

"Okay, good. Help me out here, because I'm coming up blank." Dean tightened hos grip on his weapon, clearly not happy with not knowing. "Have you ever come across something fluffy and pink with an elephant nose and a raccoon tail?"

If it hadn't been for the expression on his face, she would have thought he was joking. "Uhh, Mr. Bing Bong from _Inside Out?_ I watched that movie with my niece a few days ago."

The answer was strange enough that both brothers turned their heads to stare at the professor. Because apparently _that_ was the weirdest thing they'd ever heard. Then their heads snapped back to the empty corner.

"Of course we can see you!" Dean snapped angrily. "You're standing right there, not even hiding. Why wouldn't we see you?"

Suddenly, Sam laughed. "Dude, its a Zanna!"

The name sounded vaguely familiar to Delmonico, something Romanian maybe...

"What? No, Zanna are harmless. Why would-?" Dean cut himself off, acting like the empty space was saying something. All she could hear was silence.

Sam lowered his gun. "Professor, you're not being haunted by a ghost. You're being haunted by the real Riley's imaginary friend."

All Delmonico could do was blink in disbelief.

"So, Zanna. See, not all imaginary friends are actually imaginary. These guys attached themselves to kids who need a friend. This one had a kid who grew up enough to work for Disney." Dean explained.

They were crazy, Delmonico decided. Bewildered and upset, she cried, "Why would a Romanian fairy be haunting my office?"

"Doc, has a point," Dean turned to the empty space. "What the hell, dude? What's with the Peeves the Poltergeist routine?" To Sam he added, "See? I read stuff that's not porn."

From the outside, it looked like it looked like both men were listening intently to something. After a minute, Dean reached down to scoop something off the ground. Then he pantomimed unwrapping something and popping it into his mouth.

Sam stared at him, incredulous.

"What? Its free and I'm hungry," Dean told him defensively. "He's crying candy, Sam. It's like a pinata I don't have to beat open with a bat."

"You are eating Zanna tears, Dean," Sam felt compelled to point out.

Delmonico gaped. The thing that's been haunting and pranking her office, making it impossible to get any decent work done and freaking her out, was now reduced to tears? Was that a reaction to the Winchesters, she wondered. Except, the crying didn't seem to start until after they put their guns away. What was going on?

Dean pantomimed unwrapping another piece. While chewing it noisily he added, "I wonder what he poops."

"God." Sam pinched the bridge of his nose like he had a sudden migraine.

Then they both looked at the empty space again.

"Okay, okay, we get it. The professor over here can be a bitch," Dean gestured at Delmonico. "But seriously dude... or giant pink elephant thing. Whatever. You've made your point."

A pause. Sam's eyebrow's rose. Dean sighed.

"Because we have a Zanna killing knife at home and I am not afraid to use it." Dean announced.

Both men leaned slightly to the left and looked down.

Sam huffed. "Huh. I guess you got your answer, Dean."

Dean shifted back upright. "You poop stuffed animals? Really?" A pause and held up his hands. "Hey, I don't judge. You should've sen the log I dropped after a bowl of corn chowder..."

"Dude!" Sam snapped. "Nobody wants to hear that!"

Dean just grinned, unrepentant.

"Mr. Bing Bong, would you please become visible to Leah? And tell her what she did wrong so she can apologize and try to help you fix it?" Sam asked, fixing the corner with a big-eyed look.

The empty space in the corner resolved into a life-sized Disney character.

Delmonico shrieked.

Dean stuck a finger in his ear with an annoyed wince.

"Oh my god, oh my god..." she panted. "This can't be real! Monsters aren't real! Its folklore. Mythology. NOT. REAL."

"See?!" Mr. Big Bong demanded. "She's still doing it! How dare you! How dare you tell poor little Audry that I'm not real? She knows you're a smart professor, and she believes you when you tell her things."

Delmonico spluttered. "I just said that I wasn't a psychology professor!"

Mr. Bing Bong harrumphed. "She's smart, Audry is. Too smart for her classmates to understand her. She knew that when you said that, you meant you didn't think I was real. That meant no one would understand her, not even her favorite aunt." Wrapped candy began to fall out of the ridiculously large eyes as the Zanna sniffled. "She needs real people, friends who won't be scared off by how smart she is."

Out of the corner of her eye, Delmonico saw Sam stop Dean from reaching for more candy off the floor. The aborted action was followed by a small glaring contest ending with Dean rolling his eyes and conceding the point.

"You made her cry," Mr. Bing Bong finished.

Sam stepped forward. "So, how about this: Leah goes with you to talk to Audry right now. You both explain to her what a Zanna is and how sorry Leah is for the misunderstanding. Will that work? Then you stop the harassment."

Dean took the opportunity to pick something up off the floor; but it wasn't the newly visible candy. With a tissue to cover his fingers, he sat a teddy bear on the corner of the desk. "And Scat here will remind you that some things are real."

"Scat?" Delmonico asked. "You named the bear for me?"

"Yeah, you know, animal poop. Scat." Dean smiled.

Sam rolled his eyes. "On that note, we should be going."

"Wait, will I see you again?" Delmonico demanded.

The brothers glanced at each other.

"You've got our numbers," Dean reminded her, holding up the business card photocopy. "You find a real problem that needs handling, call us. We'll come."

Sam smiled. "We've got your number, too. Who knows, I might need help with some research." Then he looked closer at the paper. "Dude, did you make up Hunter business cards? Why?"

"The place was running a special," Dean defended. "We got one more set with the purchase of the first three. And we already had FBI, state police, and Weekly World News. We give out our real numbers often enough, I figured I might as well."


	6. The World Was Changing

'The world was changing...' Galadriel from Lord of the Rings was wrong. The world wasn't _changing_ ; the world had already changed. Old assumptions had proved wrong causing the world as she knew it to tilt on its axis. In her last publication, Professor Delmonico declared that she studied the effects of folklore on society and people, not whether the folklore itself was true. She had never been a paranormal investigator or ghost hunter.

Honestly, she had once thought it would be kind of cool, if any of it was real.

Now, though... Now she had a teddy bear named Scat sitting on a bookshelf. That none of her colleagues or students could see. She'd tried leaving it on her desk where Dean Winchester had put it, but because no one else could see Scat her fellow professors would try to set their coffee mugs down in the 'empty space.' Delmonico quickly became tired of cleaning up spills and picking up fallen papers.

People joked saying one of her ghost stories must have followed her home to haunt her office. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Now, Scat sat proudly (albeit invisibly) out of the way on her shelf propping up a photocopy of a business card: her two most concrete pieces of proof of the world outside the realm of natural. She had entered the world of the Supernatural.

In the last few months, while classes and grades marched steadily on, Leah Delmonico had tried to wrap her head around this new reality. In the downtime of office hours, she had started to go over a decade's worth of ghost stories and legends with a new eye. Playing 'Fact or Crap' with herself. There were so many different stories with some many different kinds of ghosts and monster.

Fact or Crap: the Grey Man Ghost, who protected homes from hurricane damage in South Carolina. So says, Jim and Clara Moore on Pawleys Island during Hugo. She knew ghosts were real now, the Winchesters said so. But did they have the ability or the inclination to keep a residence standing through the eye of a category 5 hurricane that wiped out everything else for blocks around? The home was still standing, that was a fact. Coincidence or supernatural intervention?

Fact or Crap: the Enfield Horror, a five foot monster in Illinois with three legs, T-Rex arms and glowing red eyes known for mutilating animals and attacking children like Gary Garret (who has the scars to prove it.) Something tore up those animals and hurt young Mr. Garret, that was a fact. Rabid zoo escapee, abusive home life or supernatural creature?

Fact or Crap: Journalist Brian Bethel being accosted by two completely black-eyed ten year olds who wanted a ride. Mr. Bethel ran away without another word to them. According to popular non-supernatural theorists (who actually accept the accounting) the children were most likely terrified with overblown pupils and shame on you Mr. Bethel from abandoning children in need. According to the Carver Edlund books, this gentlemen narrowly escaped from a pair of demons, and good on you Mr. Bethel for surviving.

The world had turned on its axis. Delmonico was coping as best she could. Maybe, the next time the Winchesters rolled through her neck of the woods, they would give her a couple hours to talk and help settle her mind about some things. The Baker's Square ten blocks from campus sold over two dozen kinds of pie. Surely she could bribe Dean into stopping.

The phone on her desk rang. Speak of the devil and he will appear. She recognized the number.

Sam Winchester's voice greeted her and asked, "Do you have access to Dr. Daniel Jackson's ancient Phoenician online? We're working a case in a museum, and something just ate their linguist. I'm trying to translate this tablet he was working on before he died, but I'm not having much luck. There's nothing on the internet useful for translating ancient dead languages and all the books I have are a twenty hour drive back to Kansas. This guy works as a civilian consultant for the United States Air Force in Cheyenne Mountain Complex. Whatever it is he does for them, they put some seriously kick-ass firewalls around his programs. I'm not making a dent."

"Why would I have access? I'm not a linguist," Delmonico protested.

"Dr. Jackson sent links to the database to most of the universities around the world, especially ones with a strong linguistics or anthropology department," Sam explained. "Your university included."

"I'll ask," she promised. "Can I call you back?"

"Sure, but...ah. Please hurry. We don't want anyone else to get eaten." With that, Sam hung up the phone.

Delmonico stared at her phone. "No pressure or anything." Her voice shook and came out edging toward hysterical. Dammit, she wasn't a hero! She was a scholastic researcher. _Lives_ should not depend on her! The most dangerous thing that happened around her was the occasional barfight and the belligerent drunk who refused to take a hint. It took a full minute of deep breaths before she was calm enough to start looking for whoever was head of the Language Department.

Professor Shapiro, Linguistics, was very helpful and didn't even ask why a colleague suddenly, urgently wanted access to an online database for ancient and dead languages. Within the hour, Delmonico called Sam Winchester back with her username and a password.

"Thanks, Leah. You're a life saver." Sam said, keyboard clicking as he typed them in.

 _Am I? Really?_ Delmonico gave a shaky laugh. "The scary thing is, you mean that literally."

Sam went silent on the other end of the line, even his keyboard clicking paused. "You doing alright? With all of this? I know its a lot to take in and we left pretty fast."

"I just... I keep wondering how many ghost stories and legends have I written off as mere stories when real people were dying because no one took them seriously?" she confessed. "What if, you know, someone like you could have shown up and saved who knows how many lives? And now, here I am blubbering on, keeping you away from an actual hunt."

"Hey, hey, hey. Calm down, okay?" She couldn't see it over the phone, of course, but it sounded like Sam had just turned on his infamous 'dewy, soulful eyes'. "You didn't know, you couldn't have known. And now that you do, you're helping. No one expects you to strap on a gun and start zombie hunting, okay? Believe me, not everyone is meant to be a Hunter. Honestly, Dean tries to talk people out of it whenever he can. But you are helping."

Tears brimmed in her eyes.

"If you want to do more, how about you go through your notes and find us jobs that need someone to look into?" Sam suggested. "Some ghosts only show up once a year or once a decade, they can be hard to track. Why don't you e-mail us the background on a job, say once a month? Maybe every other week. Don't overdo it, okay? You have your life to live, too. But send us stuff you're worried about. We'll look into it."

So elegant, so simple. "I can do that."


End file.
